THE FUNERAL.—A STRANGE INCIDENT.
It was all very well for Sir George Crofton to offer his twenty guineas
for the taking of Mr. Smith, and nothing could be more legitimate than
his servants making active exertions to endeavour to earn that amount
of money, but the really succeeding in doing so was quite another thing.
To be sure they went out into the park, and did the best to catch him,
and being well acquainted with every turn and every pathway within it,
they considered they had a fair chance of succeeding, but after their
pains they were at length obliged to give up the affair as a bad job,
after an hour or two’s most active search.
While they were away though, there was something that occurred at the
Grange which gave a great additional shock to Sir George and his sons.
It will not fail to be remembered that the first door they saw move
while they were keeping watch and ward in the moonlit gallery was the
door of the chamber in which lay the corpse of Clara, who had met with
so melancholy an end.
This circumstance recurred to them all with fearful force when they
felt convinced that the now more than suspected Mr. Smith had really
and truly made his escape.
Upon proceeding to that room of the dead, Dr. North being first, they
found some difficulty in opening the door, but upon using force they
succeeded, when to their absolute horror they saw that the dead body
was lying upon the floor close to the door, and that it had been the
obstruction to moving it.
Dr. North would fain have spared the feelings of Sir George this
affecting sight, but the baronet was so close behind him that he could
not do so.
“Oh, God!” cried the father, “my child, my child.”
“Take your father away, boys, for heaven’s sake,” said Dr. North to the
two young men; “this is no sight for him to see.”
It appeared too as if it was no sight for any one to see unmoved, for
both Charles and Edwin stood like statues gazing at it, and for a time
incapable of motion.
“My sister—is it indeed my sister?” said Charles.
The doctor fairly closed the door upon them all, and turned them so out
of the room. Then he having professionally lost all dread of the dead,
lifted the body upon the bed again, and disposed of it properly, after
which, without saying a word, he walked down to the dining-room.
“Tell me, tell me,” said Sir George “what does all this mean?”
“Do not ask me,” replied Dr. North, “I cannot tell you; I confess I do
not know what advice to give you, or indeed what to say to you.”
The old man rested his head upon his hands, and wept bitterly, while
his two sons sat looking at each other perfectly aghast, and unable
to think anything of a rational import concerning the most mysterious
proceedings that had taken place.
• • • • •
Let our readers then suppose that a week has passed away, and that the
morning has arrived when the body of Clara is to be placed in a vault
appropriated as the resting place of the Croftons, beneath the church
that was close at hand.
During that time nothing whatever had been heard of Mr. Smith. He
seemed to have completely disappeared from the neighbourhood as well as
from the Grange-house.
Fortunately, although Sir George had offered twenty guineas for the
apprehension of Mr. Smith to his servants, he had said nothing of the
cause why he offered such a reward, and the neighbourhood was left to
its own conjectures upon the subject.
Those conjectures were of course sufficiently numerous, but it was
quite agreed between Sir George, Doctor North, and the two sons that
nothing more should be said upon the subject.
They of course did not wish
“To fill the ear of idle curiosity”
with such a tale as they might tell, but had a thousand reasons, each
good and substantial of its kind, for withholding.
Young Ringwood was sufficiently recovered to be about, and to have
told him the story that widowed his heart. He fell into a profound
melancholy which nothing could alleviate, and as his recovery went on,
he asked permission to remain at the Grange.
Sir George, and indeed all the Crofton family, gladly pressed him to
remain with them as long as he would do so, for it was some alleviation
of their own distress to have him about them.
He begged permission to be present at the funeral, and it is of that
funeral we have now to speak, for it took place on that day week on
which the vampyre had first taken up his dreadful residence at the old
Grange-house, where all before had been so happy.
The church, as we have remarked, was not very distant, and a mournful
procession it was, consisting of the funeral equipages, followed by Sir
George Crofton’s carriage, that at twelve o’clock in the day started to
place the youngest and the fairest of the name of Crofton that had ever
reposed in the family vault.
The whole neighbourhood was in a state of commotion, and by the time
the funeral cortege reached the churchyard, there was not a person
capable of being out, for some miles around, that was not congregated
about the spot.
The old church bell tolled a melancholy welcome to the procession,
and the clergyman met the corpse a the entrance of the graveyard, and
preceded it to the church, where it was placed by the altar while he
made an impressive prayer.
This brief ceremony over, the coffin was carried to the part of one
of the aisles, where upon the removal of a large stone slab, the
resting-place of the Croftons was visible.
“I have not looked upon these stone steps,” said Sir George, “since my
poor wife went down there in the sleep of death.”
“Compose yourself,” whispered Dr. North, who was present. “You ought
not, sir, to have been present at such a scene as this.”
“Nay, it surely was my duty to follow my own child to her last
resting-place.”
The body was lowered into the vault, and the funeral service was read
impressively over the cold and still remains of Clara.
“All is over,” said the doctor.
“Yes,” faltered Sir George; “all is over. Farewell, my dear child, but
not a long farewell to thee; this blow has nearly stricken me into the
grave.”
“Leaning on the arm of his son Charles, who as well as Edwin was deeply
affected, the old man now allowed himself to be led from the church.
He met at the door Will Stephens, the sexton, who seemed desirous of
speaking to him.
“What is it, Will?”
“Will your honour have some fresh sawdust put down in the vault. It
wants it, Sir George; there ain’t been any put in for many a long day.”
“Very well. It will be ready for me when I go. It won’t be long before
the vault is again opened.”
“Oh, do not say that, father,” said Edwin. “Do not leave us; think that
if you have lost one child who loved you, you have others who ought to
be as dear to you.”
“That’s right, Edwin,” said the doctor.
Sir George made no distinct reply to this, but he pressed the hand of
his son, and looked kindly upon him, to signify that he felt the full
justice of what he had just said, so they had hopes that time would
soon produce its usual effects upon that feeling which of all others
is, while it lasts, the most poignant, at the same time that it is the
most evanescent—grief for the dead.
And well it is that it should be so, otherwise we should be a world of
weepers and mourners, for who is there that has not felt the pang of
losing some fond heart in which we have garnered up the best affections
of human nature.
Emma since her sister’s death had been terribly broken down in spirit,
and when they all got home to the Grange, they found her looking so
ill, that the old baronet took Dr. North on one side, and said to him
in tones expressive of the deepest anguish,—
“Am I to lose both my girls?”
“Oh no—no; certainly not,” was the decided reply. “Why, my old friend,
you used to be a man of great moral courage. Where has it all gone to
now?”
“It is in the grave of my child.”
“Come, come, you must for your own sake, as well as for the sake of
others, who are near and dear to you, rouse yourself from this state
of mental torpor, as I may call it. You can do so, and it is worthy of
you to make the effort. Only think what would have been your situation
if you had had but one child, and that had been snatched away from you;
but you have yet three to comfort you, and yet you talk despairingly,
as if every tie that bound you to the world had been suddenly burst
asunder.”
After this Sir George Crofton was almost ashamed to make such an
exhibition of his grief, and whatever his thoughts were he kept them to
himself, as well as exercising a much greater control over his voice,
and the external expression of the feelings, which were still busy at
his heart.
The despondency of Ringwood was great. He could not help fancy that if
he had not met with the unlucky accident in the ravine, Clara would
have been saved, and in some obscure way to his mind, the circumstances
seemed to be connected together. He could not account either for the
loss of her miniature, which he had been in the habit of wearing but
which he missed upon his convalescence, so that he was irresistibly led
to the conclusion that some unfriendly hands had been about him during
his insensibility.
So highly did he prize the miniature, that he offered a sum of money,
exceeding its intrinsic value by twenty times, for its recovery
and pledged himself to make no inquiry as to how it came into the
possession of the party who should restore it to him; but for all that
it was not forthcoming.
The reader of this narrative knows very well in whose possession it
was. Varney the Vampyre had possessed himself of it in the ravine, when
he saw the young bridegroom lying insensible at his feet, and he kept
it, although why he did so does not as yet appear, for surely the sight
of it could only remind him of one of his victims; but then Varney had
other thoughts and feelings than he used to have.
Alas, what a thousand pities it was that the ocean had presented him to
the two brothers? Why did he not sink—why did not some wave hide him
from their observation? What misery would have been spared to them,
and to all dear to them. And what misery would have been spared to the
wretched Varney himself!
It is true that he had given expression to sentiments, and declared
intentions which would go far to prove that he had for ever given up
and got rid of all human feelings and influences, but has he really so
got rid of such feelings? It is a question which time alone can answer.
We shall soon see in his now very short career whether he is most to
suffer or to inflict suffering, and what will be the result of his
new principles of action—those principles which he had in the despair
and the agony of his heart painted to himself as the main springs
of a combined existence, he had with such vain and such fruitless
perseverance strove to rid himself of. It was sad—very sad, indeed,
that such a being could not die when he chose, the poorest privilege of
all.